The Vault

three

THE PATHOLOGIST, JIM MIDDLETON, phoned just before Diamond was due to pack up for the day. "About that body part you sent over…"

"Hope you didn't mind," Diamond got in quickly. "We didn't know if you were short-handed."

"Leave it out, old boy. I've heard them all before. You wanted to know if it was Roman?"

"Or later. You heard where it was dug up?"

"Later is the operative word. It's not a carbon-dating job. Those bones are relatively modern."

"Meaning what?"

"Now you're asking. Bones are notoriously difficult to date. Too many variables, you see. But any fool-that is, any fool with medical training-can tell that this hand didn't belong to Julius Caesar."

"Modern, you said," Diamond prompted him.

"If you want an accurate opinion, ask a bones man. From my limited experience, I'd say it's no more than twenty years since that hand was opening doors and using a spoon and doing other things we don't mention."

"As recent as that?"

"Depends. Are the nineteen-eighties recent? I estimate not more than twenty years, but it could be as few as ten. Difficult to be exact. I don't have much experience of post mortem specimens set in concrete. About normal size. Mature, but not old. Chip out the rest of the bones and I'll try and tell you some more."

Diamond mumbled some words of thanks and put the phone down.

Instead of going home, he collected Halliwell and they walked through the still-sunny streets to the Roman Baths, situated in the centre, near the Abbey. Ironically, none of the exterior of the famous complex is Roman, however hard the Victorians tried to make it appear so. Even the statues of Roman emperors glimpsed from the street are late Victorian pieces. The genuine stuff is six metres below street level.

The staff inside were ushering the last visitors from the building. The security guard Diamond most needed to see had finished his shift and left.

"We'll go down and take a look." Just to escape from the clammy heat outside would be a bonus.

"We close in five minutes," said the man in charge.

"Go ahead. I'm not stopping you."

"We can't leave if you're still on the premises."

"That's up to you, squire. Is there any lighting down there?"

A torch was produced. The access was off the main entrance hall, down a curving flight of steps and through a couple of rooms used by the staff.

Someone had pinned a notice on the door stating "POLICE DO NOT ENTER."

Diamond turned to Halliwell. "Abandon hope, then."

The hinges gave a sound that set the teeth on edge. He picked out the structure with the torch. Solid stone steps down. Six massive stone pillars along the centre supporting arches across the top. This was emphatically a vault. You couldn't demean it by calling it a cellar. Dungeon-solid walls without even a skylight. A flagstone floor.

Musty, too.

Halliwell said, "Just the place for a Rocky Horror party."

The two detectives followed the circle of light down the steps. In truth, Diamond felt uneasy. Whether it was the chill down here after the warmth, or the dark, or just the knowledge that there might be other dismembered parts of a body buried in concrete, ice-cold drops of sweat trickled down his ribs.

He flicked the torch beam across the floor, giving nothing away about his reaction to the place. "Can you see the hole, Keith?"

They spotted it on the far side, a space between flagstones, close to a wall festooned with cobwebs thick as fishing nets. A few chips of cement lay around the edge. A pickaxe was propped against the nearest pillar.

"Don't go any closer," Diamond warned. Halliwell had been on the point of stepping forward.

Halliwell turned in surprise. "It's been here twenty years, sir."

"Yes, and some daft bugger put his foot in it. We don't need another."

Upstairs, it was actually a relief to be enveloped by the afternoon heat again.

"Ever done any concreting?" Diamond asked on the walk back along Pierrepont Street.

"Not my thing."

"Nor mine. I'm told it's satisfying work. You shouldn't skimp the preparation. You want to make sure your hardcore really is hard. Shame when it gives way."

As HE was an hour late getting home, he suggested a pub meal. Stephanie said it was a lovely idea and he knew right away from the look on her face that she was going to broach a difficult topic with him. He hoped to God it was not a visit from his strange brother-in-law, Reggie.

In the pub, he had to explain why he preferred plaice and chips to a pizza. Steph heard the story of the hand in the pizza

She asked, "So will I see you on TV tomorrow appealing for information?" (

He shook his head. "I'm in no hurry. It's not as if there s a killer on the run. Well, if there is, he'd be out of breath by now, wouldn't he?"

"You sound as if you mean to make it last."

"There are worse places to be than the Roman Baths. Everything's laid on there. Phones, refreshments, loos."

"Careful. You'll make me envious."

They were strolling home across Victoria Park in the evening sun, mellow from the drink, when Stephanie finally judged the moment right.

"Something rather intriguing came in the post today. An invitation."

"We get nothing else but invitations," he said. "Furniture sales, wine-tasting, Reader's Digest."

"This is personal. Hand-written. 'At Home', it says. Next Thursday at eight."

"At Home? What sort of party is that? Doesn't sound like the kind of bash I enjoy. Who's behind this rave-up?"

"Assistant Chief Constable Georgina Dallymore."

"God help us."

"I didn't know you had a woman boss."

"She's new. She's got to be new to send out a thing like that."

"Give her some credit. She's off to a good start if she's throwing a party for the staff," Stephanie pointed out.

"I'm not sure if you're right about the staff. Nobody nientioned it today." An uncomfortable thought was dawning. "Suppose it's only us."

"There are sure to be other people. Perhaps it's only senior ranks."

"That's worse."

She let him chew on that for a while, and then returned to it. "I know you dread these social occasions, but they always turn out better than we expect. Who knows, we may get champagne."

He rolled his eyes. "At a police do?"

"Nice food. Music. Party games." Now she was pushing it to absurd lengths, softening him up, and they both knew it.

With a reluctant smile, he said, "Hide and seek. They won't see me for dust."

"Hunt the Chief Constable."

"Wouldn't know him if we found him."

"Musical Chairs."

"The top brass are good at that."

They continued on this tack, giggling like a couple of teenagers, until Steph quietly said she would send off an acceptance in the morning. He didn't protest.

They watched the sun setting over the Mendips. "This is how I want to spend my evenings," he confided in a rare outpouring of candour. "With you."

Steph smiled to herself. This new Assistant Chief Constable had started well, putting the wind up Peter Diamond by inviting him to a party.

There were other ways of taming the beast. She put her hand up to his neck and found a strand of his sparse hair and curled it around her finger. "Do you know what I'd like right now?"

His eyebrows lifted.

Steph looked into the distance. "A ride on one of those swings "

"They're for kids."

"Can you see any kids using them?"

He laughed. "You want me to look the other way?"

"No, come over and give me a push."

PROBLEMS NEXT morning. The man in charge at the Roman Baths was the sort of blinkered official who brought out the worst in Diamond. Probably he was low in the hierarchy. It was just bad luck that today he was the most senior in the building. "You can't go through the staffroom. My people won't care for that one bit."

"No, the idea isn't to go through the staffroom."

"What do you mean?"

"We need a place to tip the rubble."

"The staffroom?" The boss-man practically choked. "That's out of the question. It's fully in use by the guides and the sales staff."

"So you'll relocate them."

"This simply isn't on."

"It's easier than relocating us," Diamond pointed out, as if his team already occupied the place. "You don't want my people shifting barrowloads of rubble through the entrance hall where the public come in. Even if you put down ground-sheets, the dust is hell."

In tourist attractions, the paying public take precedence over everyone else. Diamond won this round. It was agreed that a temporary staffroom would be found.

"Another thing, sir. How far back do your records go?"

"Which records?"

"Records of building work. At some point in the past twenty years, somebody did some concreting in the vault. I presume they used materials brought in for building projects. Do you follow me?"

"I'm not optimistic." That scarcely needed saying. The wretched man was looking suicidal after giving away the staffroom. And if he didn't put a gun to his head, the union would tear him to bits.

"When did the last major excavation take place?"

"Before my time. About 1982 to 1983, when they opened up the area under the Pump Room."

"Obviously there was rebuilding associated with the work."

"I expect so."

"And it's possible the vaults were used for storage?"

"I suppose so."

"And they must have been used on other occasions since? All the contractors and all the dates, then. And I'll need to see the paperwork myself."

"This is extremely disruptive."

"Disruptive is my second name, sir."

With heavy sarcasm, the boss-man said, "Are you sure there isn't anything else I can do for you?"

It was unwise. The big detective didn't hesitate. "Now that you mention it, there is. You can fix it for me to use the Pump Room for tea breaks."

Reddening, the wretched man said, "I'm afraid that isn't possible. The caterers are independent of the museum."

"So how does it work?" Diamond breezed past that obstruction. "Don't tell me you never eat in there."

"I might occasionally, when it's necessary to look after an important visitor, but it isn't a regular arrangement. I eat outside."

"That's your choice."

"Yes."

"I won't insist that you join me."

Down in the vault, the Scene of Crime team had already installed arc-lighting and were taking photographs. The SOCO in charge confirmed that the place had been used at some time by builders. He showed Diamond some sacks that had contained cement. Tests would establish whether it matched the cement found surrounding the skeleton hand.

"You'll be digging up the rest of the floor, no doubt, looking under the flagstones," he said to Diamond.

"Personally, no."

"You'll keep us fully informed of what you find, won't you, sir?"

"From hour to hour," Diamond promised. "You'll get no rest." He went up to see if the Pump Room was open yet.

To the strains of Kismet from the Pump Room Trio, he had coffee in there with the security man who had dug up the hand, a Pakistani immigrant refreshingly pleased to be assisting the police. The concrete was crumbly, he cheerfully assured Diamond. It would be easy enough to dig out other bits of the corpse.

LATE THAT afternoon, sheer bad luck dictated that Diamond and the new Assistant Chief Constable appeared at opposite ends of a corridor in the Police Station. As they approached each other dismay was written in Miss Dallymore's eyes. Oh my God, here is one of my senior officers, and I can't remember his name. I must brazen my way through it. Let him think I recognise him, that I am actually looking for him.

"Ah, just the man."

"Ma'am?" Diamond could not avoid this, embarrassing as it was on both sides. Being subordinate to a woman was not the problem; it could have happened with anyone new.

"You're going to tell me you're terribly busy, I dare say."

"No more than usual."

"That's good, because I had you in mind for something."

"Yes?"

"The PCCG."

Sets of initials were his blind-spot. He wasn't sure if the PCCG was some form of honour, or something to be avoided like the plague. "Me in particular, ma'am?"

"With all your experience…" The ACC smiled, as if the rest could be left unsaid. Georgina Dallymore had a disarming smile. Diamond would probably have thought her a good-looking woman if he could have ignored her shoulder-flashes. "With all your experience…" did begin to sound like recognition.

"What I've done is nothing exceptional," he said modestly.

"You'll do splendidly. They're lucky to get you. It's at the Meeting Room in the Victoria Gallery, seven on Wednesday evening. Tell Helen you'll be representing us, and she'll let you have the paperwork."

These were hammer blows. Meeting Room… evening… and, most alarming of all, paperwork.

Helen, the ACC's personal assistant, enlightened him. The PCCG was the Police and Community Consultative Group, a talking-shop with representatives of local residents' associations, the Council, the City of Bath College, the Racial Equality Council, Victim Support and similar groups.

"You'll want an agenda and the minutes of the last meeting," Helen said, opening a drawer in her desk.

"Does it say what time they finish?"

She turned to the back page of the minutes. "No, it isn't mentioned here."

"Just my luck."

"Why don't you ask Chief Inspector Wigfull? He's a regular on this committee."

"Wigfull? That's all I need."

John Wigfull was the ultimate infliction. A high price to pay for stepping into a corridor at the wrong moment.